


All Hell Breaks Loose

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, F/M, Het, Porn, Porn With Plot, UST, convention fic, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha thinks he has everything under control at his first convention with the J's. Jared and Jensen respectfully (yeah right) disagree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hell Breaks Loose

I. APRIL 18th, 2009  
Jensen said, “Don't sit so straight, you nerd.”

Misha slumped forward in his chair and put his elbow on the small table. “More like this, you mean?”

“No, nothing like that.” Jared sputtered laughter. “You look like a cheeseball. Take a shot, relax. It's not like reporters can smell fear.”

They were in Misha's motel room. Jensen and Jared had decided to help him practice being interviewed, because that would happen, and apparently they feared he'd resort to being himself if they didn't school him first—with, he admitted, good reason. He'd had mikes in his face before, sure, but never in this kind of chaos. This was his third convention, but his first with the Jays, and, as it turned out, Jensen and Jared's presence made all the difference. His first two cons had been laid-back, lightly attended, almost scholastic in feel; this one was half cuddle party, half mosh-pit.

“You have nothing to worry about, anyway. All the hard-hitting personal questions will be about us.” Jared smiled hugely, leaned back and splayed out so his knee bumped Jensen's, who slumped with his elbows on the table by his side. The two men a united front, as always.

Misha slitted his eyes. “Good, so I can tell them all about how you gave Jensen a box of chocolates full of flavored condoms for Valentine's Day.”

“Do not do that,” Jensen said, and the sudden stress in his voice made Misha laugh. “Joking around like that in front of the fans, that's one thing, but interviews go right up the chain, straight to the CW. You gotta be careful.”

He made eye contact and Misha's small laugh whuffled out to a gasp. He hoped Jared didn't notice. It wasn't so much the color of the man's eyes, their clarity, or the Bambi fringe of blond lashes, but the way his gaze always skipped down to his mouth, then lower. It just gave him hell, was all.

He'd talked about it with Vicki, because this, he did not know how to handle. Jensen was attracted to him—of that, he had no doubt—but Jensen was only one part, and not the major part at that, of the actual power couple on the Show. Somehow, this job had stuck, but who knows what would happen if he went on slipping through Jensen's fingers—literally, since he glided away from the touch whenever the man grabbed his shoulder or his hip, slapped his ass, slid his hand down his arm. If he went on rebuffing him, would Jensen low-key support the death of his character on the Show? Or, conversely, if he went for it, would that piss Jared off, with the same result? 

Worrying about this cost him sleep.

But when he brought it up, Vicki had only laughed. They were in bed together, the musk of their just- completed lovemaking hanging in the air. “So he wants you. Who doesn't?” she'd said, licking the salt off his neck, making him shudder. 

She was right. Misha didn't understand it, but people always responded to him violently. Whether they loved him or loathed him, he was a magnet around which people's emotions polarized themselves. 

“Just live with it,” she advised. “See where it goes.”

“Right now, nowhere,” he grumbled.

“Do you want it to?” 

She ran her hand down his stomach, his muscles fluttering in the wake of her touch, to his erection. She wrapped her fingers around it, still tacky with their combined juices. 

“Yes, you do,” she purred, and he didn't deny it. She nipped his neck as she rolled her fingers over his head, her thumb stroking hard on the ridge beneath his tip, and he jerked, fucking his hard-on through her fist, sensation jolting all through him. Vicki knew exactly how to touch him.

He wasn't embarrassed. He'd had his first, second, third homosexual experiences at her instigation. Vicki whole-heartedly enjoyed watching him with men, and he whole-heartedly enjoyed the opportunity to sexually dominate without a thousand years of patriarchy in his head calling him an asshole for doing so. Besides, once he'd gotten over the “no breasts” aspect of things, he liked it: sex with men was more a contact sport than a conversation. He could be more selfish, less vulnerable, and he found that fun. 

“He's dying to get fucked by me,” he whispered in her ear, his thumb on her clit, his long fingers inside her, stroking her G-spot with a certainty born of long familiarity. She writhed, her breath breaking, turned on as hell, as he'd known she would be. 

“And you like that,” she husked out in response, ever the psychologist. 

“Fuck yes I do,” he growled. “God, Vicki, if you could see him.”

“I have seen him, and I don't blame you,” she said, breaking away, laughing; “I watch the Show.”

“No,” he said, because she wasn't getting it, “I mean the way he is with me. The way he looks at me. He swaggers around and oh fucking god, I know he's huge, but he wants to take it.”

“And you want to give it,” she said against his mouth, before kissing him deeply and swinging her leg over his hips, mounting him for the second round. 

Misha curled into her slick heat with a ragged groan, langurous pleasure seeping like slow sap through his nerves.

“Don't you dare shut up,” she sighed against his mouth, her lips vibrating against his. “Tell me.”

With a sensation like stepping off a roof, he groaned, “I dream about fucking him,” before he drove into her so he couldn't say any more, because he hadn't even admitted this to himself, and yet, here he was. But Vicki just gasped in open lust and ground down on him, flowed over him, her sweet tongue twined with his. He pushed her upright, onto her knees, and followed her so he could run his tongue beneath her breasts, suck her nipples. Tension coiled in his groin, up his spine as she rode him, flowing in his arms, a wick of life that by some miracle had decided to cleave to him, skin glass-smooth and molten hot against his.

And at the same time, as though his admission had opened some lewd door in his head, Vicki's curves morphed as if by alchemy into big shoulders, male musk, full lips shining with spit wrapped around the base of his dick, forest green eyes rolling up to stare into his, shocked and awed and obedient. The fantasy sent a crest of pleasure through him that had him rocketing up into her, shoving her hips down on him. 

She whispered between confetti kisses, “So what do you fear?”

What did he fear? Her reaction? He had it, heat flooding ecstatic around his cock, her wetness running between his thighs. Vicki was last person on Earth to tell him what he could do with his body, just as he could not tell her what to do with hers. 

Jensen's reaction? The pupils of his eyes blown enormous, his cock pressed hard as a gun-butt against Misha's hip when he put his back to the wall, that first flash of angry confusion changing to lust, to pleasure. Misha would run everything; all Jensen had to do was receive. At last, he'd get his hands on that enormous cock; even if he were only a shower, that length was still impressive, would be even more impressive hard. Jensen's eyes wide, helpless with need, as he palmed that erection through the denim, no more pretending, no more lies, no more awkward moments after the director called “Cut!... Sweet Jesus, guys, this is a _wide shot,_ ” while he stood so close Misha could taste the strawberry chew he'd eaten twenty minutes ago, his ears burned red, his heated eyes latched on Misha's mouth. 

Jared's reaction? Now, that was something. Jared, brilliant, powerful, and hot-tempered, had ill-defined boundaries, constantly changing. One day he'd be all horseplay and puppy cuddles, and the next, assistant after assistant had to pound on his trailer to flush him out, scowling and cursing, to do his scenes. He'd been better since he met Gen, but he was still unpredictable. He was an exception to the “love or loathe” reaction the rest of humanity had to Misha. His feelings were a foreign country; they did things differently there. So, yes. He feared Jared's reaction. 

“I could lose this job,” he said.

Vicki hummed encouragement for him to continue and, at the same time, wiggled her ass playfully, causing Misha to lose his breath as she undulated around him. 

“Finally... we might be able to have kids... keep this house...” Misha had built this house with his own hands and crafted most of the furniture in it. He and Vicki had lived in cars and garages and on friends' floors during its construction. He wasn't going to give it up easily. 

“We need this,” he said, suddenly serious, pulling back to meet her huge, black eyes. “I'm not gonna fuck us over, Vicki, not just so I can get laid.” 

“You don't always have to be the responsible one,” she said. She slowed her grind, attenuating his pleasure, twisting each word into him in time with her hips.

“When we drew lots at the beginning of this relationship, responsible's not the one I drew, I know,” Misha said. “But I'd do anything for you, Vick. Anything. And that goes the other way.”

“So that means you'd not do anything?” She grinned, amused, and then her own arousal took over and she sped back up, stoking him, her pussy clasping and sucking at his cock as he gasped and gripped her and started to lose his hold on the world. 

“Let the future take care of itself,” she said, the words broken as her brain and her body separated, her body striving for its resolution even as she tried to tell him what he needed to hear. “Don't stop yourself,” she stammered. “Don't get in your own way.”

Well, considering that Jensen seemed incapable of moving past helpless jerkoff fantasies, Misha could agree to that. “I won't,” he promised, and arced up to her again to snatch one final kiss, his stomach dropping and his body melting as his orgasm pulsed through him and into her, insistent, undeniable.

“You with us?” Jensen asked. 

Misha shook his head to clear the vivid recollection. Where had that come from, anyway? Jared stared at him with one eyebrow raised, looking like he wanted to whip out a tricorder and measure his vital signs. Misha had a semi from the memory, but it's not like either of the Jays could see it, so he shifted in his chair to make himself more comfortable.

“There. You got it. That's how to sit,” Jensen said, snap-pointing, sitting back.

Misha grinned, wondering if he should let Jensen know he'd only been trying to keep his jeans from choking out his chubby. If Jared weren't right fucking there, he would definitely have said the thing. Jensen's expression changed a little, his eyelids lowering, as he caught the undercurrent to Misha's smile and reacted to it, even though he couldn't name it.

That was something he hadn't admitted to Vicki. Fucking with Jensen was a lot of fun. It was probably a shitty thing to do, but after putting up with the Jays' bull all day, unable to strike back in any meaningful way, rendering Jensen incoherent with frustration was one of his few consolations.

So he said, “You're telling me I should always leave myself room to expand,” with a little stress on that last word as he held Jensen's eyes.

Jensen got it. He smiled, his interest kindling, but Jared either didn't or felt like pretending he didn't. “Don't expand too much,” he said. “I know you can't help going off on...” he waved a hand, “... tangents, but try to keep it here on Earth, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure,” Misha said, breaking what was developing into a heated eye-fuck with Jensen to raise an eyebrow at him. “You, Jensen, trailers. Got it.”

Jared's eyebrows lowered as he assessed Misha's tone for seriousness. Misha grinned again, trying to keep the challenge out of it and failing. The two of them had circled in this cliche dude-bro alpha display ever since Misha got on set. If Jensen didn't insert himself, it always came down to this: who was wittier, who was faster on his feet, who made Jensen laugh the hardest. If Misha weren't dead certain Jared was straight, he'd say they were in a sexual competition, and at first, he'd truly wondered: but no. Jared wanted Jensen by his side, not as a sexual partner, but because they both had something missing in their psychology, some critical Jenga block that kept the whole edifice from tumbling down. By some lucky accident, they'd found that in each other, and Jared was, understandably, possessive.

Yet another reason to keep this thing on a leash. If Misha were missing a Jenga block, he'd found it in Vicki when he was sixteen years old, and he didn't need to get in the middle of someone else's codependent relationship, no matter how it was structured. 

Jensen watched the interplay, torn between “business as usual” and “somebody stop them.” Misha met his eyes again, and for an instant, his mind curled open the way it always did with Vicki, letting him read Jensen's thought as clearly as words printed on a sheet of paper: _Seriously? Would it kill the two of you to get along?_

_We're just playing. Don't worry_ , he replied silently, testing, and watched Jensen's eyes fly wide. 

Interesting.

Immediately, though, Jensen turned to Jared and said something, so low Misha didn't catch it, and the tentative contact severed as though an iron door had dropped between them. Misha kept watching him, warmed, a little frightened, but mostly just sorry. Vicki had suffered miseries before she learned to manage being an empath in this world of loud brains. Jensen couldn't possibly know that the reason he kept getting sucked into other people's moods, imitating their body language, their ways of thinking bleeding into and staining his own, was because he had that talent. How awful for him.

And he used Jared to shield himself off, which made sense. Jared had one hell of a shield. 

While this new information explained some things, it wasn't his business, so Misha hauled his attention back to the matter at hand. Jared, who took Jensen's whisper as a sign of victory, rearranged his face into a big-brother expression. “Next on the agenda is trick questions.” 

“Okay, so this is how they'll try to screw with you, all right?” Jensen said. “They ask you something, seems innocent enough, but you get five words into your answer and you realize you're about to spoil an upcoming episode. Usually those kinda questions—”

“---are about props, set dressings, returning guest actors, stuff like that,” Jared said. “So if someone starts asking you about the art department, you know they're trying to get you to reveal a spoiler. Here's how you handle it—-”

Jensen repositioned his chair to face Jared more squarely. “Oh, so Mr. Give It All Away's gonna tell Misha how to handle a spoiler question? This, I gotta hear.”

“Dude, that happened _once_. Let it go.” He flicked Jensen's shoulder with the backs of his fingers. “Listen, Misha, this shouldn't be too hard for you, since you never shut up. What you do is, start talking about all the set design, all the props, praise the hell out of the art department. Go back like five episodes and talk about what they did with the wallpaper....”

There was a hand on his thigh.

Misha's already limited ability to pay attention to what Jared was saying went right out the window. Jensen took advantage of his new position at the small table to pat Misha's thigh. Light taps. Could be played off as friendly, or at least it could until the final one, after which Jensen left his hand cupping Misha's knee.

And, all right, then. Misha could play, too. He slumped down in his chair, his legs tangling with Jensen's and Jared's under the table (Jared defended his space with a thump on his shin that almost distracted him from his strategy, but that was a pretty strong “almost”). His movement forced Jensen to move his hand or else his shoulder would have been pushed back, revealing what he was doing to Jared, still talking with only a frown for what he saw as Misha being a brat, with the end result that Jensen's hand wound up high on his leg, almost on his crotch.

Misha grinned at Jensen's bashful blush, the man's lips stuttering through a silent word he couldn't read. But any thought that Jensen was an innocent pawn of his masterful game evaporated when Jensen purposely wiggled his pinkie finger in the crease between his thigh and his groin. Hell, Misha shouldn't even be able to feel it, the caress was so tiny and there was so much denim in the way, but all his blood shot down to the pit of his stomach anyway. Jensen had to feel the swelling, the heat, because he smiled, “So there, motherfucker,” written all over his face. 

Jared said, “Oh, for god's sakes. Fucking—Jay, really?” 

Jensen snatched his hand away. “Just wanted to see if he'd break,” he lied smoothly. Jared probably didn't know Jensen had just been all but palming what was now a very insistent erection, but he knew enough, and he had an epic bitchface over it.

“What you were saying wasn't that interesting anyway,” Jensen went on, grinning. His green eyes flicked over to gauge Misha's reaction, proud of himself, triumphant. 

Misha swallowed, completely undone.

Jensen Ackles wanted on his dick: proposition confirmed.


End file.
